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My hoose here in Kirkwall doesn’t have radiators. Or a furnace. What is has is in-floor radiant heat. Each room is controlled by a thermostat, and the heat rising out of the floor heats the whole room. It is the best thing ever! No fossil fuels, and when I get up in the morning, the floors, whether bare or carpeted, are warm to my feet. I love this.

Now, I have not yet unpacked. I bought one Ikea dresser and I will assemble it tomorrow. But it means that for the last fortnight (see how British I am? Huh? huh?) I have had my suitcases spread out on the guest room floor, with all my clothes (except those hanging in the closets) laid out in them. It’s not quite the disaster it sounds, as I have my summer wear tucked into 1/2 of one case, and all my sweaters ditto, and so on. But here’s what I’ve noticed. Even though I have the thermostat in that room set quite low, it is still on and all the clothes are warm. That means my underwear is warm, my socks are warm, sweaters, jeans, etc… whenever I put something on, all thanks to the in-floor radiant system. It’s the best feeling in world, especially on cold mornings. I’m actually not really looking forward to moving everything into the new furniture.

So here’s my question: why aren’t dressers heated? I don’t mean anything extreme, not like a curling iron or anything, but just a gentle element, maybe running up inside each leg of the dresser, that slowly generates just enough heat to warm our clothes. Someone should invent that.

I had made the decision that each Sunday was going to be spent not prepping, or shopping, or sorting, or cleaning; but exploring – a different excursion each week.  We’ve done harbours, beaches, and a prehistoric village so far.  But the thought of getting in that car again after yesterday’s 10-hour journey; well, it just wasn’t on. So Scout & I went for a 2 hour walk through the town.  Up and down every alley, lane, close, wynd, loan, and walkway.  We found quaint little gardens, shops with handcrafted jewelry, a store that actually sells bulk food from a dispenser instead of the miles and miles of plastic I see at the major supermarkets, and, as we were walking down one twisty little alley, I heard bagpipes!  Well, that’s it.  I hope we haven’t peaked too soon: I mean, can it get any more Scottish than that?  I never saw the piper, I don’t know where he/she was playing, but as we strolled through cobbled lanes, we were serenaded by the pipes.  Och, aye.

Up at 5:15am, waved cousin & uncle good-bye at 5:40 and felt very smug about being on the road 20 minutes earlier than planned.  You see, I was aiming for the midday ferry to Orkney on the theory that I could avoid driving home in Orkney in the dark.  Hmm.  What I hadn’t thought about was that I was driving unfamiliar roads in the pitch dark for well over two hours in the morning.  In the rain. Again.  And, as before, well under the speed limit.  I could see the arrival time on my SatNav inching later and later as I cruised along at a frightening 55 mph, with transport trucks and school buses overtaking me. 

What was going through my mind during those hours and hours?  When I wasn’t freaking out about the lights of the oncoming vehicles, I was working out how I can place my next order and arrange for a delivery firm to pick it up, regardless of cost.  All I know is that I am not leaving this damned island again any time soon.  At least not until there is 10 hours of continuous daylight.  (Because, to be fair, when it did brighten, the drive was absolutely beautiful – mountains, farmland, coastline – just lovely.)

Those who know me know I don’t shop well.  I have been known to walk into a large store, see all the goods and all the customers, and turn to walk out (both sisters have had to grab my arm and say, “don’t be silly, come on.”)  I have driven all the way to Square One, driven around the parking lot, seen the crowds, and just driven home.  Really.

But I was on a mission in Glasgow; first stop: Currys (think Best Buy).  It wasn’t a quick process, but I walked out of there with everything on my electronic list.  Then off to Ikea.  Ikea: my sisters and I are convinced ‘Ikea’ is the Swedish word for hell.  One of my big concerns was: how much could I fit in the car (including poor Scout) and still be able to see to drive?  So I headed straight for the one item I desperately needed: a dresser.  I bought it and took it out to the car – it fit!  Returned to the store for another round of shopping.  Then we headed to my Uncle’s.

The next morning my cousin drove me back to Ikea for round three.  Had I mentioned the rain?  Pouring again, and this time the added fillip of COP26 which was starting that weekend – we saw a lot of Glasgow as we tried to dodge the protesters and the usual Friday traffic.  But she really didn’t seem to mind – so kind.  More furniture and stuff, then back to Currys (did you know they now sell cell phones with the cable but not the plug?  Or maybe that’s only a British thing.  So stupid. I have no idea why the salesclerk wouldn’t have sold me one the day before?)  I didn’t buy everything I needed this go round because of space limitations, but my intention is to have a bunch more things shipped to Ikea’s Aberdeen Pick-Up Centre and that will cut my next trip later this month in half.

We got home from my second day of full-time shopping and I was able to fit it all in the car, including a space for you-know-who (who was not impressed with her jury-rigged corner bed).  God I was tired.

When Google Maps tells you it’s about 5 hours+ to get from the north of Scotland to Glasgow, it’s easy for a Canadian to think, “Well that’s the same as driving from Toronto to Ottawa.  Easy.” But, when you factor in: leaving early enough to make the ferry, plus the ferry, plus the stops for you and/or the dog (there is not an On Route every 66km in the Highlands), and (and this is the biggy) Google assumes you will be driving at the speed limit the whole way there.  That is 70 miles an hours anytime it’s 2-lanes, or 60 miles an hour everywhere else.  Sixty.  That’s 100 km/hr.  On highland roads.  In the rain (it is Scotland after all) and, for the first hour of the morning and the last hour of the afternoon, in the dark.  As the roads weren’t too busy, I didn’t have to pull into passing places to let those behind go by all that often, but I can guarantee you that I was rarely driving the speed limit.

I bundled Scout into the car at 6:30am at home, and we walked into the hotel in downtown Glasgow at 4:25pm.  A hotel where the parking is a lot 2 blocks away.  And it was pouring by the time we arrived.  Sheeting down.

But we made it, and I was able to accomplish my number one goal: get a bank card.  At 4:55 that afternoon I walked into the bank, a sorry, sodden, cranky mess, and 11 minutes later I practically skipped down Argyll Street, all because of a little square of plastic. 

Years ago I worked in a fair-sized branch of the Bank that had lots of paintings and prints up in the offices and hallways. And every single, solitary picture was a bleak winter countryside scene. I never understood that; why in a part of the world where it snows at some point during at least six months of each year, would you choose to hang scenes of cold, white, barren, blustery, snowy fields and streets? It was so depressing.

Over the past seven days I have been shopping for furniture and linens and supplies, and I have noticed a trend: everything I buy is grey. Grey sofa, grey chair (they did have the same one in mustard. I don’t like mustard.), grey shelves, grey lamp (2 of them), grey towels (they were on sale), grey dishes (the only other choice was black), and a grey kettle (the other choice was purple). I have moved to an island where it rains more often than not, where it is cloudy at least 60% of the time, where the clouds are grey, the sky is grey, the houses are grey, and the sea is dark grey; and I have chosen to fill my house with grey items.

Great.

I tried to be as organized as possible when packing to leave Canada.  All the things I thought I wouldn’t need for a while went in the biggest suitcase, things I wouldn’t need until I actually hit Orkney went in the next biggest, and so on and so on with all five pieces of luggage.  Needless to say, the last day or two of packing became more about jamming things into every nook and cranny, and less about an organizational master plan, and there were a few things I had to jettison due to lack of space figuring I could replace them here in Scotland.

Well, with no furniture in the house, I haven’t really unpacked – I’m just living out of various open suitcases and piles on the floor (a dresser is coming next week, along with a coat rack).  Imagine my frustration when I discovered I hadn’t packed any woolen hats.  No toque, no knitted beret.  I did find that I had packed a baseball cap (did you know Brits don’t wear baseball caps?  No one does.) and a sun hat.  A sun hat!  In Orkney!  I left behind the winter wear and packed a sun hat; what was I thinking?  And only one pair of gloves.  Seriously, what an idiot.

So yesterday I went into a shop and looked at locally made woolen hats. Beautiful knitted hats made here on the island.  I won’t tell you how much I paid; suffice it to say, that little brown toque is going to have to last me for years.  But I’ve done my part to support local, and at least my head was warm this morning on our walk.

A P.S. to this post: I dug around in one of the suitcases 30 minutes ago looking for my Dad’s old pen knife and came across: lined woolen mittens, 4 more pairs of gloves, my favourite toque from the Vancouver Aquarium and my favorite woolen beret. 

So I’m still an idiot, just for a different reason.  Sigh.

I know, I know, I keep harping on about not having access to the internet. 

I think my generation is in a very specific place in history: my parents’ generation really did spend their whole lives without being hugely impacted by the internet.  Sure, my Dad used technology to take e-books and audiobooks out of the library, and my friend Shirshee uses FB and Facetime to stay in touch with her grandkids, but really, for them modern technology has been an minor add-on in later life. And my nieces and nephews don’t remember a time when the internet wasn’t integral to everything they do – they simply could not exist without their cell phones or social media.

But for my generation, the first half of our careers was completely without significant modern technology: carbon-paper documents, overhead projectors, and electric typewriters were the only technology for the first 15 or so years of my time at the Bank.  But by the time I retired, I couldn’t have made it through a day without a Blackberry to stay in touch, an iPad to complete documentation, and Word, Excel & Google on my desktop to do everything else.  We really did straddle the techno-boom like no other cohort.

Which is why I am yammering on, yet again, about a lack of internet access.  The issue is not because I am in a remote location (well, not really).  The two big stumbling blocks to being live and in touch with the rest of the world are: I didn’t know what my permanent address would be until I had been in Scotland for 10 days and therefore struggled to convince companies to deal with me and, even though I opened my UK bank account back in the summer, my bank card didn’t get mailed to me until after I had left Canada and had to be cancelled and re-issued (still waiting).  And in the UK no one, absolutely no one, will do anything for you without a bank card.  So, here I sit, waiting for my broadband (wi-fi) to be installed, and waiting to be able to get a UK mobile phone.  (And it seems I have over-used the Roam package I bought through Bell for my first month here, mainly by spending a lot of time on the phone to UK call centres, and by uploading all the photos I’ve been taking.  Hunh.)   I can’t believe how much this matters to my day to day experience!  And I really don’t consider myself a tech-addict – I’m not a huge user of social media, I try to limit my time on Netflix or Britbox (well, I try), and yet somehow, I feel like I am stumbling through each day accomplishing very little. 

Okay, done venting for now – off to the library to use their broadband and upload this whining to my blog.

This is my first homecooked meal since, well, September, I guess.  That I cooked I mean (thank you Sibling 2 and Uncle Ian).  And the first fresh vegetables in a while – I’m always leery of salads out.  Did they really wash the lettuce? So, mac and cheese with Orkney cheddar, some coleslaw, and pickled red onion.  Even their vegetables are different – the cabbage is called Sweetheart cabbage, and is shaped like a cone. 

Oh, and of course, some cava to celebrate my arrival.  I don’t have either a television or wi-fi yet, so my viewing pleasure was thanks to MM, who gave me the full compilation of Criminal Minds and Murphy Brown.  For my first week sleeping on a new bed in a new house in a new town, I don’t think serial killers is the way to go, so Murphy Brown it is.

Today’s the day. I took possession of my house on the weekend, and have slowly been shopping around town, looking at larger items, and stocking up on smaller essentials. It’s a 3-bedroom (well, the smallest will be a boxroom) with a yard and it’s empty.  Apart from large appliances (and some old hangers) it’s empty.  Exciting, for someone starting afresh.  Daunting, for someone who hates shopping.  But I’m checking out of the hotel in an hour, so I have no choice this morning but to buy: a bed, a table or desk, and a chair.  Here’s hoping places deliver on Mondays.